


You had me at Loathing

by Kidd_you_not



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Assassins In Love, Enemies to Lovers, Gift Fic, M/M, Rivalry, after rereading this I realised one thing, ft. a tag game of love, no beta we die like men, non-consensual kill stealing, stupidly and overly dramatic, the flirting is as subtle as a sledgehammer in this one, the homoeroticism of (not) murdering people together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kidd_you_not/pseuds/Kidd_you_not
Summary: "What?" he asks absolutely no one, completely baffled. Movement to his left catches his eye and he twists around, still hanging from the balcony railing by his legs, and gapes.There, right there on the adjourning apartment building, is a man. A man clad all in black, with chestnut brown hair falling to his chin and a mask covering the lower part of his face. Holding a sniper rifle in his right hand and giving Clint a mocking little salute with the left."Motherfucker!" Clint screams.Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier work for competing companies. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they cross paths on more jobs than either of their handlers can endure.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 26
Kudos: 93
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	You had me at Loathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lacerta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta/gifts).



> I had so much fun writing this and I hope you like it! Please know that as soon as I saw the prompt I startled laughing and rubbing my grubby little hands in anticipation.

The first time he lays eyes on his eternal nemesis, his cosmic adversary, the stone in his shoe and pineapple on his pizza, he's upside down hanging from some poor man's now desecrated balcony, watching as his target jerks out of his line of fire. The arrow he shot strikes concrete instead of oil tycoon, because said oil tycoon caught a bullet only milliseconds before Clint's arrow could put an end to his miserable, corrupt little life. 

"What?" he asks absolutely no one, completely baffled. Movement to his left catches his eye and he twists around, still hanging from the balcony railing by his legs, and gapes. 

There, right there on the adjourning apartment building, is a man. A man clad all in black, with chestnut brown hair falling to his chin and a mask covering the lower part of his face. Holding a sniper rifle in his right hand and giving Clint a mocking little salute with the left. 

The metal railing keeping him from falling to his death creaks ominously and goes the way of a great many things burdened by age and the weight of a muscle packed assassin in his late twenties. 

"Mother _fucker_!" Clint screams, for a multitude of reasons. 

  
~~*~~

  
The first time Bucky sees the ridiculous archer, the man is rooting around some poor person's balcony, taking flower pots off the railing and depositing them carefully on the floor. He's on the same level as Bucky, but for some reason — could be Bucky hiding behind an air-conditioning unit, but that's not really an excuse — he hasn't spotted him yet. 

The man is wearing combat gear and Bucky just watched him rappel off the roof, so he's fairly sure he's not the owner of the balcony, but rather Bucky's very own competitor. All of these things are fairly easy to deduct and he is already patting himself on the back for getting a read on the other so quickly.

Then, the guy does something so thoroughly unpredictable Bucky almost shouts in outrage. He hops up on the railing and lets himself fall over the edge. 

Bucky jerks, some instinct demanding he jump up and catch the moron, but before his mind and body can come to an agreement regarding their next course of action, the moron catches himself by his bent knees and draws his bow. 

Bucky sputters. Not only did he get distracted by a rival hitman, he also let himself be worried for him for a hot second. Worried for a guy who's undoubtedly here to steal his kill using an archaic weapon and ridiculous trick shots no less!   
He fumbles his rifle into position, aims at bad guy number whatever currently enjoying some mindless party on the roof of his penthouse suite and takes the shot. It's far, far from his best work, but it gets the job done and gives him the added satisfaction of stealing a kill right from underneath Archer Guy's upside down nose. 

When he looks over, he's greeted by a truly laughable sight; Archer Guy still hanging from the railing, mouth open and floppy hair swaying in the breeze.   
  
He leaves with a rare grin on his face and a barrage of shouted insults ringing in his ears. 

  
~~*~~

  
' _This is no one's fault but your own_ ' his handler said. ' _Just be faster next time_ ' his handler said. ' _Why were you hanging upside down from a balcony anyway_ ' his handler said.

Clint slams the door of the conference room shut behind him like the petulant child that he secretly is. He hasn't failed a mission in — and here he has to stop and think — half a year? A little more, maybe? And that one had not been his fault, rather caused by truly unforeseeable circumstances completely out of his reach of influence. 

It had involved Clint, an elderly lady with a surprisingly loud voice and the limited lifespan of a belt buckle holding a pair of threadbare jeans from sliding off his hips and taking his boxers with them. 

The ensuring chaos was _not_ his fault, no matter how disappointed the looks his handler gave him afterwards were. 

Just like getting bested by a rival assassin because Clint wasted time with trying out his latest trick shot was not his fault, end of discussion. 

His fists clench in frustration. Clint will absolutely _show_ that man the next time he sees him.

~~*~~

Bucky, Agent Barnes, world class assassin and at the top of the company's ranking list, doesn't notice he has company until there's a fucking arrow sticking out of his fucking rifle. The thing pierced it clean through the barrel, rendering it and by extension Bucky, useless. He drops the thing and curses violently. 

Going by the angle the arrow hit it at, the archer — and he can't believe that line of thought crosses his mind — must be to his right and slightly behind him. How the hell had he not seen him when setting up his watch? 

And why the hell did no one at his company check if other agencies had accepted the job?

He dives behind the wall of the rooftop's outhouse and ponders his next move, but before he can come up with a way that ensues the success of this job as well as the continuation of his life, another arrow whizzes past his hideout. He ducks on instinct, but it's not necessary.

The arrow wasn't aimed at him. 

Instead, Bucky watches as it cuts through the air in an elegant arch and finds its inevitable target in the form of a business mogul whose hands are drenched in more blood than even Bucky's are. 

_Good riddance_ , he thinks. Then: _Fuck_. 

Alright, he may have failed his mission, but the cause of his failure will not get away this time. 

He chances a look past the wall at the only place the other assassin could have taken the shot from. There he is, the archer. Precariously balancing on the raised wall of the high rise building's roof, the one that's supposed to keep people from falling over. There's a flash of teeth and a distinct wave before the man backflips off his perch and runs for the door leading inside. 

Bucky's first thought is a fond ' _little shit_ ' and his second is ' _hot_ '. He doesn't know which one he should be more concerned about. 

~~*~~

He ends up chasing the archer down three city blocks and only gives up when his handler's voice in his earpiece reaches a rather frantic, furious pitch that has his ears ringing for hours. By the end, he has nothing to show for himself but a broken rifle, a murdered — but not murdered in the way that _counts_ — target and a black arrow with purple feathering. 

He grinds his teeth all the way back to headquarters. 

~~*~~

Clint rides the high of his last job for entirely too long and he can tell that it elicits exasperation wherever he goes. He doesn't care. He showed that awful, goddamn son of a bitch who's boss. 

Who cares that the ensuing chase almost got him caught by the local police force? Who cares that he almost tripped over his goddamn feet landing that backflip? He's pretty sure the other guy didn't notice, so it doesn't count. 

He should start worrying about his employment here, though. There's only so many times you can fuck up until they will deem you an unnecessary risk and Clint vows to be extra good on his next missions. 

Or get his hands on some very private information. 

~~*~~

Months go by without another incident. Clint stays true to his word and works tirelessly to make up for his previous fuck ups; his handler even praised him and clapped him on the shoulder awkwardly after one particularly clandestine job a few weeks ago. It made Clint feel like a dog at the time, but he filed it as a success nonetheless. 

A success, because, no matter how much he tries to deny it, he spends every single one of his missions expecting to be thwarted by his nemesis at any second. Sure, it makes him much more vigilant than his handlers are used to, but also paranoid and unduly so. He doesn't see the sniper again for a long, long time. 

It happens when he's already struggling, because of course it does. Today's job is to take out a corrupt politician. At least, that's what the file says, but try as he might, Clint can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't do this. 

Sure, the woman takes money from lobbyists, but it's what she does with the money that counts, right? And what she does speaks for itself: Funding an orphanage here, turning an endangered forest into a nature preserve there. Speaking out against the US' heavy influence in her country, demanding they pull out their troops. 

Surely that's not enough to get her killed. 

But Clint isn't boss here. He knew that there would be jobs he wouldn't feel good about when he signed up, but he did it anyway. Just because his conscience chooses to speak up now after over a decade of being in this profession doesn't mean he should throw his life to the dogs just like that. 

(Right?)

So when he hikes up to the top of a hill covered in thick, dry grass and practically trips over a body laying flat on the ground, he almost yells in joy. But only almost. 

He actually does trip then, but only because a hand grabs him by the ankle and pulls until he's flat on his back. He freezes. 

Ah. He knows that face. Or more like, knows that hair and that mask and those clothes. The eyes he doesn't know, but he's thrilled to make their acquaintance. He doesn't really have the mental capacity to give them the attention they are due, though. 

His opponent seems similarly caught in place; eyes going from Clint's face to his bow to his face again. None of them move until a convoy of armoured cars appears on the road they are not facing anymore. 

Clint finally manages to tear his gaze away and peer at the convoy, the target, and from his periphery, he thinks he sees his rival do the same. 

Their eyes meet again and Clint thinks he recognises the same kind of reluctance in the other man. He rips his foot out of his opponent's grasp and rolls to his feet. 

From then they're off, throwing punches, evading kicks and ducking hurriedly thrown projectiles, until Clint throws all inhibitions to the wind and makes a run for it. From the thundering sound of footsteps behind him, he knows the other is following. 

He manages to keep the smile from appearing on his face, but only just so.

~~*~~

Bucky spent a day a and a half getting chewed out by his superiors, but he let it slide off his shoulders like water. ' _Maybe you should have checked if anyone else had taken the hit_ ' he told them. ' _Maybe you should have set up surveillance instead of sending me in blind to get literally tripped over by the enemy_ ' he said. ' _Maybe failing this mission isn't such a hardship_ ' he didn't. 

In the end, it didn't matter. He gets send on desk duty like he's some unruly child needing a time out. All he can do is roll his eyes. 

_Whatever_ , he thinks. Let them play big boss. Their ego trips are no concern of his.

He hadn't even wanted to accept that mission, had even done anything he could to pass it onto someone else, but it hadn't mattered in the end. They sent him anyway and he failed. 

His lips twitch and he has to bite down on a grin. And what a failure it was. He chased the man — _Hawkeye_ as he knows now — through rolling hills under the scorching sun and somehow, he had fun doing it, bruises and sore muscles non-withstanding. It was... fun. 

And something that makes a long buried part inside of him rear up and take notice. 

~~*~~

Months go by. In between passing his missions with flying colours, his score card gets stained with one failure after the other, one more ridiculous than the next. 

Once, he manages to draw Hawkeye away from the target and lose him in the crowd of a busy Saturday afternoon only to run into him at the train station when he's — and probably Hawkeye as well — trying to leave the area undetected. 

The next time, Hawkeye tackles him to the ground in a nightclub and they get positively trounced by the bouncers and thrown out on their asses. It's the first time they part ways by mutual agreement, both nursing tender jaws and sides. They don't speak, but manage to communicate anyway. 

Then there's the time Bucky gets literally nailed to the wall by one arrow after another until his clothes are riddled with holes and he resembles a pin cushion more than a master assassin of his calibre. His breaking point comes when an arrow misses his jewels by like half an inch and he spews a barrage of curses and insults that only serve to make the other trip over his own feet in his laughter. 

He levels a glare at the other man, the one people have told him could make Mothman piss himself in fear, but Hawkeye only winks and vanishes out the back door of Bucky's shitty little hide out. 

God, his year is _ruined_. 

The next time, he gets his revenge outside a gala by kicking an unsuspecting Hawkeye in the back so hard he topples headfirst down a chimney and gets stuck, ass in the air. The sight of his flailing legs combined with his muffles screams makes Bucky laugh so hard he has to sit down for a moment. The noise draws the security's attention and he has to make a run for it before they spot the currently very, very vulnerable man in the chimney. 

Bucky may consider himself a bit of a bastard, but he isn't cruel enough to leave Hawkeye hanging like this. 

~~*~~

When Clint sees the very handsome, very familiar looking man in the crowd surrounding him, he fumbles on of the juggling balls and tries not to lose his cool when it bounces off the marble floor and into the crowd. A smiling lady picks it up and he asks her to throw it back at him with a head jerk and a wink. 

He's at another fucking gala, the last one still unpleasantly fresh in his mind, being the entertainment. Some juggling, some acrobatics, some trick shots. All of them child's play for him, except of course when he sees his rival, his nemesis watching him with a glass of — rather mediocre, if he may say so himself — champagne and wearing a truly sinful tux, he stutters in his routine. 

He never thought tuxedos would do it for him, but here he is. 

He tries not to grimace and dislodge the showman's grin from his face. There are better times to think about this than in the middle of a job, he tells himself. Not that he plans to actually do much thinking when he's off the clock. 

He chances another glance at the Winter Soldier — Clint got the name from one of his superiors after a truly exhausting amount of heckling and frankly, he thinks it's kinda pretentious. The man's face shows only bored curiosity, maybe a little bit of a new money type of arrogance and Clint has to admit that he isn't a bad actor at all. 

Excitement curls in his belly. Are they here for the same person again? Are they gonna fight again? If so, when and where? He knows the exits, he could leave and see if the other follows. 

Against his better judgement, he changes the routine. Originally, he planned to keep his performance light and tame, but now... He lets the balls drop one after another and ignores his more colourful — but _boring_ — juggling equipment. 

The bow feels strange and unfamiliar in his hand. It's not one he's ever used before, since it's mostly for show, but it does nicely when used for short ranged trick shots. 

He goes through the motions, so used to the draw and release, the twists and leaps, that he keeps most of his attention on the Winter Soldier. He lets his eyes flicker over as he prepares his next trick. The crowd is oohing and clapping appropriately, but aside from a few grins and bows here and there, he ignores them. 

The other man's left eyebrow has wandered up his forehead and he takes a sip from the flute in his hand. That is... wow. Clint mouth has turned into the Sahara in less than the second it took to follow the motion with his eyes. 

He's startled out of his haze by the sound of an arrow not hitting the target quite right. His mouth falls open.

He missed. He honest to god _missed_. 

He shot at the wall, intending for the arrow to ping off the surface and into the target — one of those things he could do in his sleep — but his aim had been a little off, which resulted in the arrow hitting the wall at the wrong angle and striking the wood lining the target. 

Clint missed. 

He hasn't missed a mark since he joined this profession, hasn't let himself. 

The shock on his face is wiped off and plastered over with a grin and a good-natured laugh. "Well, you can't get them all, can you?"

The surrounding crowd titters politely as he retrieves the arrow and tries the shot again. When he chances a glance to the side afterwards, the Winter Soldier's face has changed.

It's gone a little soft around the edges, the mask having slipped by the smallest degree and exposed _fondness_ of all things. Clint's stomach swoops. 

_Oh, you are in trouble_ , he tells himself. 

~~*~~

He doesn't even bother sniffing out his target. Clint is supposed to poison the woman with a tiny little pin once he has finished his show and gets to stand around talking to overly snobbish people about archery like it's a hobby and not — as far as they know — his full-time job. Actually, it _is_ his full-time job, no matter from which perspective you look at it, which just adds to his argument, doesn't it? He thinks it does. 

Instead, he fucks right off towards the bar where he last saw the Winter Soldier and tries not to be miffed at the fact that the man didn't stay to watch the whole show. 

He settles on a barstool and sweeps his gaze across the room. However, before he can find the source of his current frustration, a drink is placed in front of him with a low thunk. He looks down.

The thing's a purple, glittery mess of slush, frilly ornaments and a curly straw spelling out the word ' _fun_ '. It's a fucking eyesore and he loves it.

The bartender just points towards the side of the bar and when his eyes follow, the bane of his existence grins right back. Clint bares his teeth at him.

"Joke's on you," He says, has to raise his voice to be heard over the orchestra music, "I'm into that shit." And he takes a deep drag from the straw, keeping his eyes on his opponent. It tastes more like taste enhancers than actual alcohol, though he's not gonna to mention that.

The man's eyes flicker between him and the drink and his face finally loses some of the unbearable smugness. 

Clint waves for the nearest bartender. "Give him the nastiest thing you have on the menu." 

The young woman's eyebrows shoot up, but she goes to prepare the drink without a comment. It's a simple glass full of an unidentifiable, clear liquid and as he watches in glee, the bartender drops in one, two, _three_ pickles and sets it down in front of his enemy. 

The Winter Soldier bends down with a frown, sniffs and rears back with a face so violently disgusted, Clint cackles. 

Despite or maybe because of his unexpected laughter, he remembers his mission, the whole reason he's here tonight, and tears his eyes away from his competitor to search for his target. 

She's nowhere in sight and he can't find it in himself to care. Surely, she will show up eventually. 

Until then he should stop looking all suspicious sitting alone at the bar and start looking like the sleazy entertainer chatting up a guest instead. Yeah, that's what he should do.

He picks up his drink, surprised by how heavy the whole thing is, and plops down into the seat right next to the Winter Soldier. He might get stabbed tonight, so he might as well make it worth it. 

That fucking eyebrow shoots up again and he lets the man look him up and down suspiciously. When his eyes have wandered back to Clint's face, the blond winks. 

There's a loud crack and Clint blinks, confused. A crack has appeared in the Soldier's glass where he's holding it in his left hand. 

There's a pause. 

Then. "Did you just fucking –" Clint starts, but he's interrupted. 

"Shut up," the other says lowly. 

Clint wisely shuts up. 

Silence settles around them and it's awkward. Who would have known that, coming face to face, they would not actually have anything to say to each other? Clint contemplates throwing the mission to the wind and making a run for it just to avoid the tense small talk and inevitably making a fool of himself. 

"So." The Soldier says. And nothing else.

"So," Clint repeats, tapping his fingers against his glass. "You here for McConnell?"

The other nods. "Yup." And he raises his cracked glass to his lips and takes a sip. The myriad of expressions crossing his face right after deserve to be immortalised on film and Clint almost busts a rib with the force of his laughter. 

"Oh, this is _vile_!" the Soldier spits and shoves the drink far, far away from him. "If you do not stop laughing right now I will shove my boot so far up your ass -"

Before he can finish the sentence and before Clint can stop the words from coming out of his mouth, he says, "But why would you do that if you could shove a whole load of other things up there?" 

There's another crack, this one much louder, and he startles. 

"What was that?"

The other retracts his hands from underneath the bar. "Nothing. Shut up."

"Alright then, keep being a weirdo." Clint shrugs.

"Oh, _I'm_ the weirdo?" The other's eyebrows almost disappear in his hairline. "Do you see me hanging from balconies and prancing around in skin tight purple glitter suits?"

Clint eyes his own attire. The man has a point. 

But that doesn't mean Clint has to acknowledge it. "I see you wearing half a face mask and an all black combat suit, like some fourteen year old ' _edgelord_ '–" he throws in some air quotes here "–on Myspace. You have no ground to judge me for my fashion choices." And just to be really petty, he adds, "The stringy hair doesn't help either."

The man's eye twitches. "It gets sweaty." 

"I bet it does."

There is a pause, filled with nothing but their silent stares. Clint breaks first. "And what even is your name? The ' _Winter Soldier_ ' is quite a mouthful, don't you think?"

"I _am_ quite a mouthful," the man says, "but that has nothing to do with my moniker."

Clint is very suddenly, very fiercely glad that he wasn't about to take a sip from his drink, because he's pretty sure that if he'd been, he would be fighting for his life against the threat of choking on a very mediocre long drink right about now; and that really isn't any way to die. He never believed he'd leave this plane of existence with dignity, but this would be too much, even for him. 

As it stands, his brain goes static and takes its sweet time coming back online. Time that is filled with his adversary giving him a saucy little grin and the most exaggerated filthy wink Clint has ever seen on a person this handsome. It's a crime, that's what it is. 

"But you can call me Bucky," says the– _Bucky_. 

When Clint opens his mouth what comes out is closer to a wheeze than any kind of actual word, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Is that your legal name?"

Bucky smiles serenely. "No. What about yours?"

"You can call me Iron Fist."

"Sounds kinky." 

...Clint is fucking _delighted_. 

He briefly contemplated giving a fake name or worse, giving his second. He almost shudders at the thought. "Clint. You can call me Clint." Telling a competitor his real name? A big no no in the industry and yet it felt wrong to do anything else. 

Bucky stares, his eyes searching Clint's. Something softens in his expression, goes warm and gentle and Clint almost loses himself in the feel of it. 

_Grey eyes_ , he thinks, _Bucky has grey eyes_. 

~~*~~

Miraculously, they do not end up killing each other that night; they don't even fight. Instead, they stay by the bar and bicker back and forth about previous jobs, what to avoid when you want to be undetectable, and inevitably, who's the better shot. 

Clint comes very close to his breaking point when Bucky says that the usefulness of a bow is limited compared to that of a rifle. The affront, the sheer _disrespect_. 

Bucky almost pours his second drink — the abomination ordered by Clint not being counted — on the other's lap when Clint tells him — brags, really — about impossible hits he carried out in the past. He doesn't seem angry, that's not it. It's just that when Clint mentions shooting around two corners and up a stairwell Bucky is so caught up in his disbelief and denial, he spills some of his caipirinha due to his wild gesticulating. 

Clint can't help but feel pleased to see Bucky this lively. He's only ever seen him stoic, blank, fierce, and determined — don't get him wrong, those are all very good looks on him — or acting. But this doesn't feel like Bucky's playing a role, not at all, and Clint loves to see it. 

They resurface when the music stops and the musicians start packing up. Around them, the ballroom has cleared of anyone but the most determined party goers. Their target is nowhere in sight and probably hasn't been in a while; neither of them have bothered to check. 

"Guess I failed my mission yet again," Clint says and purses his lips to keep from smiling like a fool. 

"Guess we both did," Bucky murmurs. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't need to either. Clint can hear it loud and clear. 

~~*~~

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a small twitch. A flutter of fabric or maybe a hint of a shadow, but he recognises the object of his day dreams when he sees him. 

The grin that takes over his face is borderline feral, he's well aware. But in his defence, he hasn't seen Hawkeye — enemy, friend, rival, _something_ — in over four months. He's allowed to feel joy at the prospect of another meeting filled with ignoring orders and chasing each other around a city neither of them have been to before. 

They do just that. Bucky's shot smashes a window right next to where he expects Clint to be hiding. Sure enough, a familiar shape darts out of the rundown building, blatantly putting himself on full display, and vanishes through the door to the even more rundown, abandoned warehouse. 

There's supposed to be a ruthless mafia clan using the area for when their business becomes especially dirty, but his mission briefing leaves his mind like the rifle his hands. It falls to the ground with a clatter, Bucky hardly noticing. 

Four months. He's had a lot of time to think in those _four months_. 

He makes his way down and sprints across the street and into the warehouse. His feet thunder across the concrete inside, aiming for the door on the far side of the main hall, when a bang from upstairs has him whip around. 

Nothing but a dark shape against the moonlight. Tantalisingly close, yet too far to grasp. 

There's no doubt: This is a challenge. 

Clint came to him first, the last time they met. Now, it's Bucky's turn. 

He sprints up the metal stairwell, uncaring for the noise he makes as long as he's quick. Clint could slip away at any second, after all, and waiting another four months for their next clash would be the death of him. 

Clint wants to make Bucky work for it, but that's fine. He doesn't mind. 

He reaches the first floor, then the second, already knowing where to go. This phase of their acquaintance can't end anywhere than in a rooftop rendezvous. 

The door leading him to the top floor almost flies off the frame with how he rips it open and he freezes. What now?

It's dark, almost too dark to make out the shapes filling this level. A breeze flutters through the smashed in windows and stirs the brown, rotten leaves covering the abandoned work stations. It's deadly silent. 

He takes a step forward and a soft chime draws his gaze to one of broken windows to his left. _Of course_ , he thinks with a soft grin. 

A thick rope is hanging right in front of it, swaying in the breeze, and leading upwards. 

As soon as Bucky steps onto the rooftop, a fist comes flying out of the shadows and he drops, sweeps his leg out on instinct. Clint's right there, having jumped back to avoid having his legs kicked out from underneath him. There's a wild grin — one that Bucky surely mirrors — on his face, his soft looking hair almost silver in the moonlight and eyes dark like onyx.

 _Fuck_ , but he's a sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky throws himself forward, tries to catch Clint around the waist, but the other man spins away like a dancer. _Or like an acrobat_ , he thinks with giddy excitement. 

The archer moves fluidly, turning his spin into a roundhouse kick aimed at Bucky's head. He has to jump back with a breathless laugh. Have they ever actually fought like this? All alone and without anyone or anything to interfere? He doesn't think so. 

This doesn't exactly feel like fighting, though. 

They circle each other. "It's been a long time," Bucky finally breaks the silence. 

"Too long," says Clint like it's the most natural thing in the world and Bucky feels like his chest simply burst open, aching fondness for the man in front of him pouring out. 

Some may say that it's asinine to fall for an assassin who has tried to kill you and who you have tried to kill in return, but to these people Bucky says this: It could simply not have ended any differently. Normal is not for them, not for their profession, and pretending it is will only lead to denial and disappointment. 

He leaps forwards and tries to grab Clint's arm, but the infuriating man escapes again and a millisecond later, Bucky feels an arm snaking around his throat, getting him into a headlock. He throws himself backwards, fingers scrabbling at the man behind him until he gets a good grip and twists. 

When Clint lands on his back, Bucky follows and drives his shoulder into Clint's belly like a battering ram. The arms around him fall away with an almighty wheeze. 

Unwilling to have the other slip out of his grasp yet again, Bucky scrambles upwards and bodily pins him to the ground. However, Clint doesn't even try to break free. 

"Got you," Bucky pants down at him. 

Clint grins brightly, completely unashamed. "You do." 

There it is again, the almost unbearable fondness clawing at his insides and Bucky thinks that if he doesn't do anything about it soon, he may combust. He laughs instead, still breathless. 

He moves off the other man and pulls him up. As soon as Clint is back on his feet, he steps right into Bucky's space. 

His mouth goes dry. He didn't actually think about what he'd do when he catches Hawkeye. 

"Will you get in trouble with your company?" he asks instead of giving voice to all the thoughts clouding his mind. 

Clint blinks and looks at him, but then he shrugs. He's still so damn close. "I will, but I took precautions. They can't get rid of me." So they can keep meeting like this, at least for the time being.

Bucky breaths a soft laugh. "I'm glad." His eyes dip down to the soft curve of Clint's upper lip. He takes a shuddering breath and sways closer. 

"Do it," Clint whispers. And Bucky does. 

He presses their lips together, first roughly then softer and softer. Warmth fills his chest and he sighs. His right hand comes up to gently hold Clint's jaw and he uses it to turn him this way and that, the man all pliant in his grip. 

He draws away and Clint follows, kissing him again and again. Somehow, Bucky thought this would go very differently. He thought that after having fought for most of their encounters, their first kiss would not be much different. 

_But this_. This is very different from what he envisioned. 

He turns his face and draws his lips over Clint's cheek, longing to feel the rough stubble under his lips and the curve of his smile under his fingers. The object of his reverent attention gives a pleased hum. 

Their foreheads knock together and Bucky's eyes flutter open; he can't remember having closed them in the first place and the thought fills him with another rush of warmth. Clint is already looking back at him, satisfaction, pleasure, and love in his gaze. 

_Yes_ , Bucky thinks, _this really could not have gone any differently_. He would not have let it. 


End file.
